Sometimes I think of you as an electric blanket and you’re plugged into the wall behind the dark wood that surrounds my water bed. There, behind the tapestry of Bob Marley that hangs from the ceiling, you heat up to heal me in my time of great need. Yep, you’re an electric blanket and I’m thirteen and I have a Tribe Called Quest cd hidden under my headboard because it has adult language. All the way back then before the house changed hands. In the old neighborhood. You old electric blanket.